Brothers
by stisaac
Summary: Scott was always afraid of his loved ones getting hurt. Stiles has been right by his side from the very beginning and has made it this far. But Scott never thought that there could be a threat outside of the supernatural world. Now he doesn't know what to think.


**A/N. I am an emotional mess because of last night's episode. **

He can't even look at him. Hands clasped tightly together, Scott stares at him, twisting his fingers around each other as he listens to the conversation swirling around the room. Mr. Stilinski is talking to the doctor, telling him to call his son Stiles. The doctor approaches them then and Scott does his best to look at him because it's not like it's actually him who's getting the MRI.

"You're going to hear a lot of noise. . ."

Stiles hates noises. And he's claustrophobic. God, they're scanning his _brain _why can't any part of this at least be easier? Scott listens to Stiles casually refuse the earplugs and wants to tell him to take the damn things if it would help a little. It doesn't surprise him though. Stiles is trying to hide his fear as best as he possibly can. He doesn't want to worry anyone more than they already are so he's making as less of a fuss as he possibly can.

Mr. Stilinski starts telling him that they'll be right outside the room, but Scott tunes completely out almost right away because this is the part where he has to leave and he's not sure he can do that without falling apart. He listens to the father and son interact all the while sensing his own mother's gaze on him. He stares intently at his hands, focusing on just breathing.

"You know what they're looking for, right?"

Stiles sounds so calm, like he's seen this coming for a long time now and has rehearsed his answer. Scott hears him and all he can think of if the five stages of grief and how Stiles sounds like he's at the final one: Acceptance.

He knows he should probably acknowledge his friend and tell him that no he actually has no idea what they're looking for. He has no freaking idea and it scares the hell out of him. He doesn't know what's going on with his best friend and it makes him feel so utterly weak and helpless. He can't even bring himself to look at him because he knows if he does then he'll break down. He can't do that. Stiles has been the one to guide him through everything up to this point and now it's his turn; his turn to help Stiles. Mutely, he shakes his head a tiny bit, knowing that Stiles isn't looking at him either.

"It's called frontotemporal dementia," Stiles confesses quietly. He won't look at Scott. "Areas of your brain start to shrink. It's what my mother had. It's the only form of dementia that can hit teenagers. And there's no cure."

No cure.

Scott is at a complete loss for words. He feels like a heavy weight is on his chest and he can hardly breathe. Speaking will just shatter the sense of bravado he's pretending to have. _This can't be happening, _he thinks. _Not him. Not Stiles. _There's no way he could possibly be so. . . be so sick.

Tears gather in the back of Scott's eyes and he reaches up to wipe them away before realizing that it'd be a show of weakness that Stiles cannot see right now. He needs to say something to his friend, give him some sort of reassurance. Stiles hasn't said anything, but Scott can hear it in his voice. He depends on Scott so much to always know what to say. Scott would never forgive himself if he let him down now.

"Stiles, if you have it," he says softly, sniffing a little. "we'll do something."

Finally, he finds the courage to look at his friend even as the mask begins to slip. He stares hard at Stiles, forcing himself to look at how vulnerable he is. He's trying so hard not to cry because he's Stiles and crying would be selfish. But he looks like a scared little boy and it's the worst pain that Scott has ever felt. "I'll do something," he promises.

Stiles has tears in his big brown eyes and Scott gives a short nod as if to further cement his words. On the outside he's calm and in control. Stiles can depend on this Scott. The Scott who would do _anything _to keep him safe. The Scott who is brave and can stay by his side no matter what. The Scott who always has the answer. The Scott who doesn't cry.

At first, Scott is terrified that Stiles will say no. He's the most human out of all of them and he holds onto that humanity so tightly. He's stronger than all of them in that respect, Scott thinks. He doesn't need supernatural powers to save the day. Until now. Now his brain, _his brain, _is failing him. He's just seventeen years old. Scott thinks of Derek who gave the bite to Erica and Boyd and Isaac. He remembers criticizing the former alpha because he chose those who just couldn't say no. Their motives were different but now Scott understands.

He watches Stiles, silently pleading with him. He has no idea what he'll do if Stiles says no. Does he ignore him or honor his wish? Will he be able to sit back and let this happen? Scott tries for the briefest of moments to imagine watching Stiles deteriorate and it's then that he knows he just can't.

Stiles nods though. He gives the slightest nod but doesn't speak and Scott knows this is because he'll cry. Neither of them want to cry in front of the other. But Stiles is the one who might be sick. Stiles should be crying. Even now he's trying to be brave for Scott. In fact, Scott wonders if the nod of consent was actually for Stiles himself or for Scott. He wonders if it's the truth.

He's not sure which of them moves first. Stiles leans forward, arms open and Scott meets him halfway. He wraps his arms tightly around his friend and holds on for dear life. Inside he's trembling and the fragile feel of Stiles beneath the thin material of the hospital gown makes it even worse. His heart feels like it's being stabbed again and again and he can hardly breathe.

Stiles clings to him and Scott can hear his breath hitch. He rubs his back gently and moves his thumb in small little circles. He feels Stiles press his face into his shoulder and the material of his shirt there becomes slightly damp. Closing his eyes he tightens his grip. "I love you," he whispers in Stiles' ear. "And I promise you'll be okay. I won't let you go."

He never wants to let him go but he has to. It takes all of Scott's strength to make his arms fall to his side, telling himself it's only temporary. What he really wants to do is grab Stiles and take him to a place where nothing bad will ever happen to him. But that's impossible and it's destroying Scott. Killing him. Especially when Stiles won't let go of his hand. His eyes are suddenly wide with panic, color drained from his face so he looks even worse. He looks _sick _and Scott is terrified.

"I'll be right out there," he swallows thickly and nods in the general direction of the door. His feet are rooted to the floor and he can't move away from Stiles. Gently, he rubs his thumb over Stile's knuckles and then clasps the bony fingers between both of his hands. "I'll be back in as soon as they let me," he promises.

"Scott," Stiles' whisper sounds so fragile and hardly there.

He doesn't say anything else but he doesn't have to. Leaning close, Scott presses a light kiss on Stiles' forehead, lingering there because their closeness is what's keeping him sane. He reaches up and gently smooths back stray strands of the other teen's hair. "You'll be okay. I'm right here."

Eyes shut, he feels Stiles nod against him and he reluctantly steps away. He can see the doctor in the corner of his vision, waiting blank faced by the door. He doesn't turn his back on Stiles for one second, but instead walks backward the entire way out into the hall. The doctor casts him a sympathetic, not-so-hopeful smile and closes the door slowly.

It's then, when he can't see Stiles anymore, that Scott breaks. His chest tightens up until the pain gets so bad that his eyes flood with tears. He stumbles away from the door but doesn't make it to the armchair before he sinks to his knees on the floor. He can't breathe.

It feels like an asthma attack except it was never this bad. Scott digs his nails into the carpet as black spots dance in front of him. He tries to focus all of his attention on taking at least one deep breath but it's not working.

"Scott? Scott!"

Arms are wrapped around him and Scott doesn't know who is suddenly holding him but it doesn't matter. The contact sends air rushing through his lungs and he collapses bonelessly into a strong, warm body. A strangled cry escapes him and then he's sobbing hard. It's not any better than before because he still can't breathe right.

He remembers Stiles talking about how his biggest fear was drowning and how that was what a panic attack was like. Keeping your mouth closes until that very last second before surrender. He talked about how surrender seemed like a peaceful thing after the agonizing pain and hell. That was one of the worst conversations they had ever had and the entire time, Scott thought that _he _was going to wind up having a panic attack. Hearing his best friend talk like that was awful. It was nothing compared to now though. This. . . this was the panic attack. The drowning. And it's all Scott can do to keep from breathing in and ending it all.

"Scott, look at me!"

Hands grip his shoulders and through the fog, Scott can hear frantic worry in the voice. He shakes his head, trying to clear his vision and obey but the room spins and tilts around him. "S-Stiles," he manages brokenly.

"Scott? What's wrong with Stiles? Did something happen?"

Worry now. But Scott can't reassure anymore. Every last bit of his strength was left with Stiles. He shakes his head again, trying to say _something _but everything is so out of control right now.

"Scott!" There's a new, desperate edge to the voice this time and the hands give him the finest of shakes, somehow in the gentlest way imaginable. "Scott, I need you to calm down. Take a deep breath and talk to me. Is Stiles okay?"

Stiles. Okay. God, he's not okay. Scott shakes his head again. "He's s-sick," he gasps out. "They think that- that-"

Finally, it starts to clear up and he can sense that it's _Isaac _who is holding onto him and talking. Isaac's green blue eyes staring at him, full of emotions: fear. compassion. worry. "Scott, what's wrong with him?" he asks. His voice is shaking, but he still has a death grip on Scott. He's afraid but he's trying to help. Carefully, he rubs his hands up and down Scott's arms. "What's wrong, Scott?"

Scott finally succeeds in taking one deep breath and wipes at his tear-streaked face with the sleeve of his shirt. "Um. . . I- I don't know. They're not sure. But. . . it looks bad, Isaac. Really bad." The fear threatens to pull him back under, but Isaac is still holding onto him, keeping him just above the surface.

Isaac's face is pale. "How bad?" he whispers, eyes automatically filling up with tears. "What's happening right now?"

He honestly doesn't know if he'll be able to tell Isaac. The words are spinning around in his head, repeating themselves over and over again but there's still the thinest thread of hope that it isn't real. Saying it will make it real so Scott doesn't even want to open his mouth. He just wants to wake up and find out that this is all some horrible nightmare.

_"You have extra fingers in dreams?"_

"Scott? What are you doing?"

Scott looks away from his hands and meets Isaac's gaze. "Did you know that you have extra fingers in dreams?" he asks bleakly. "Stiles told me that once. When he was first having trouble sleeping and everything. Oh my god, Isaac, why didn't I say anything when it first started? Why did i let it get this bad?"

"You didn't know," Isaac says helplessly. "None of us knew. We all just thought it was because-"

"But it wasn't," Scott cuts in. "It isn't. It's bad, Isaac. It's not something we can just learn to deal with. It's worse."

Isaac just stares at him. "Worse than a darkness wrapped around your heart?"

"Damn it, Isaac. He's dying, okay?" Scott focuses on the wall behind Isaac because he _can't _see his face when he hears the news. "There's something wrong with his brain. It's called fronto-something dementia. Basically it's. . . his brain just. . . it's not working the way it should be. Parts of it are. . . shrinking."

Isaac is silent. Scott continues to stare at the wall. There's some kind of mark on it. A scratch in the pale paint. He feels Isaac's grip on his arms tighten until a small whine of pain escapes him. Isaac still doesn't say anything. Scott doesn't blame him.

Suddenly he can't focus on the wall anymore because Isaac's shoulder is in his face. Or his face is in Isaac's shoulder. Scott can't really tell for sure. All he knows is that Isaac's arms are wrapped around him in an embrace. He can feel the younger boy shaking and instinctively returns the gesture and they hold onto each other because Stiles can't.

"He's going to be okay, Scott," Isaac murmurs, and to Scott's disbelief, there isn't a hint of doubt in his voice. "I know he will."

Scott starts to pull away but Isaac is holding onto him too tightly. "How?" he asks in a broken whisper. "How do you know, Isaac?"

"Because," Isaac's reply comes without a hesitation. "He's Stiles."

**A/N. I don't know if I can wait until next week, guys. I really can't. **


End file.
